


hands to myself

by newrromantics



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-29 09:51:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6370153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newrromantics/pseuds/newrromantics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>prompt: can't keep my hands to myself, i mean i could, but why would i want to?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Her touch is hot to the bone, scorching you, lighting you on fire, electrifying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hands to myself

_ one. _

 

 

Her body is littered with bruises, nasty little purple spots on her rib-cage and a cut that's dried with blood on the bottom of her chin. You know how this line of work twists bodies into weapons of destruction (legs that  _ kick _ , hands that  _ punch _ ) and how they turn them into punching bags. Before,  _ before you were ripped from your world of glitter and landed in this land of dirt and blood and sacrifice, _ your body was on display. It was a prop that hung the latest in fabrics off of it, it was a tool of manipulation for getting what you wanted, it was where your worth and value was determined upon. It spun in the air, girls pushing you up, it held other girls up. It strutted around hallways in mini skirts and crop tops and knee high boots. It was yours but it wasn't. It was there for others. It was a mannequin on display; something you were proud of. After,  _ now _ , it is a weapon. It brings men to their knees and breaks down doors. It is stained with blood and protects those who are unable to protect themselves. It is put through hell; through fights and is held down underwater and training. It is littered with the same bruises on Faith’s body; mirroring the same war you’ve been through.

 

It’s the first time you’ve seen the damage of what you do reflected on somebody else. 

 

You feel trapped in a trance, silently moving forward --  _ because you’ve seen it in the mirror, felt it underneath your own hands, in your skin, when you turn on your side in your sleep and hiss out in pain but you’ve never seen it like this _ ; her skin is black and blue and your fingers press against the tender skin. Faith hisses, gritting her teeth. It feels more real to see it up close. It feels less lonely to know that Faith goes through it, too: the push and pull, the kick and punch, the bruises and the pain. Because sometimes you feel guilty for hating that part, for craving a life of normalcy, you could never turn your back on being  _ this  _ ( a hero ) because people need you. But, people need you and you need someone who understands the sacrifices. 

 

“Sorry,” You whisper, fingers still pressed to her skin. Her chest moves up and down, her breathing shallow and you’re too oblivious to be able to tell it’s your fingers, your proximity that’s causing her shallow breathing and you think she’s in pain. You step back, eyes wide, and another  _ sorry _ on the edge of your lips. Rose coloured and torn. 

 

“Don’t be, B.” Faith smiles, tightly. Hidden behind a mask. You wonder what’s underneath the wall she’s built up. Her shirt is on your floor and her bra is black - plain but silky. You avert your eyes and wish you had the courage to disguise your interest, your attraction, and look a little longer. 

 

_ two _

 

 

Faith is spread out across  _ your _ bed - lying on her stomach, her legs up in the air, against your wall. Chewing loudly on a piece of bubblegum. Her shoulder is bare, where her shirt has slipped down. Legs wrapped in leather pants that she had joked  _ would look good on you, B,  _ with a smirk as the two of your browsed through shops the other day. Smoothies in hand and swapping stories in daylight of your youth (Faith tells you stories of parks and ripped jeans and stray dogs and the kids who banded together to stay out past their bedtime and climb over the playground equipment, you talk about family breakfasts back when your family was still a family and the dance classes you used to take). It was a far cry from the shadows the two of you spent the majority of your time in together. Faith looked younger in the sunlight, her smile more warm and forgiving than the taunting grin she gave creatures that roamed around at night. 

 

Her  _ smack _ of bubblegum brings you back to the present. Her eyes are enchanting, light and mysterious, and you wonder if it’s something about being  _ slayers, the chosen two,  _ that draws you in towards her. Or maybe it’s something more. It feels a lot like it did with Angel, the pull and tug, the flipping stomach, the rush that moves through your veins every time you’re around her.

 

( except it can’t be  _ that _ , because, because, because-- 

You grasp at straws because Faith is a girl,

And you’re a girl,

And the heat and rush and the appreciation of her body must be jealousy,

Fierce and rippling,

And not  _ l o v e  _ )

 

“You just gonna lie on the floor?” Faith asks, an eyebrow raised. You smile, shaking your head, a light blush creeping across your cheeks as you stand up from off of the floor and come to lie down next to her. Elbows brushing against each other. Heads too closes together.

 

_ It’s fine. _

 

“You’re hurt.” You say, voice surprised as you notice the cuts on Faith’s knuckles as she grabs the pack of gum sitting on your dresser. 

 

“Huh?” Faith asks, eyebrows furrowed as she looks back over at you. In one quick motion, you’re sitting on your knees and reaching over for her hand. Of course she’s hurt, the two of you spent half an hour pummelling a pack of demons before slicing their heads off. 

 

Her knuckles are red and raw, her hand sore. Faith grits her teeth and smiles through the pain. Mask up again. Your fingers brush over her hand softly,  _ (any excuse to touch her) _ , before looking up and meeting her eyes. Her lips are close, too close, and you smile nervously before pulling your head back again.

 

“I can bandage it up.” You offer, your fingers still wrapped around her wrist. Faith hesitates and you can see the indecision flash across her face, you expect the  _ It’s fine _ , and instead she surprises you; allowing you one of her rare gentle smiles and moments of vulnerability.

 

“Yeah, okay.” Faith smiles,  _ soft and sweet _ , and you reach for the first-aid-kit hidden underneath your bed. 

You take your time putting antibacterial cream on each cut, grabbing five bandaids out of the box--

 

Faith grabs your hand with the hand you’re not holding still, “I don’t think you need to put a separate bandaid on each cut.”

 

“Oh.” You glance down at the stack you have in your hands, embarrassed, smile a little sheepishly. “Riiight.”

 

“The cream is fine.” Faith says, moving to stand. “Uh, thanks. I should get going.”

 

And just like that she’s gone.

 

_ three  _

 

 

Leaves crunch underneath your feet, laced up in boots borrowed from Faith. It feels like you’re somebody else in them; slipping on her leather jacket, blonde hair tied back into a ponytail, lace-up combat boots that look more than a little worse for wear. It feels like you’re  _ Faith _ ; like nothing you do will have any consequences, maybe it’s why you grab her wrist, your thumb stroking her vein before pushing her up against a headstone.

 

Your stake digs into her upper thigh, your lips pressed firmly against hers. It’s awkward for a second. Her body is frozen against yours and you can feel the mistake dawning on you, ready to pull away before her hand flutters to cradle the back of your neck. Her lips open up underneath yours and you can  _ taste _ the lipstick she uses. Or maybe it’s your lip gloss you can taste. Or maybe you can’t taste anything at all. Maybe you’re too delirious from how much you’ve wanted this.

 

Everything feels warm and safe, wrapped up in this moment. Like danger is a force you battle but it’s separate from this, like nothing can touch you here. But there’s a stake in your grip, resting on Faith’s thigh and your grip tightens on reflex, pulling apart from Faith for a gulp of air and to jam the stake into a vamp’s heart, twirling around and kicking it the ground on instinct. Faith at your side, her stake out, the quirk of her lips before she crouches down and stabs it in the heart. Dust floating everywhere. It’s routine, the two of you falling into step together. It reminds you of being fifteen and Alicia, how the two of you fell into step together during cheer practice, the small pit-pat of flutters in your stomach, the way her lip gloss looked extra shiny whenever you got too close to her. 

 

Faith stands up, brushes the dust off of her jeans, glances at you. Her smile is soft, bordering on a smirk, like she’s sharing an inside joke with her lips. Her hair looks soft, too. Shiny, like you could run your fingers through it for days. 

 

“Hey,”  _ Angel.  _ You snap out of your trance and glance behind you,  _ your boyfriend.  _ You forgot you had one. Guilt washes over you, one last look at Faith before you move to ask him what he’s doing here in a hushed whisper, afraid you’ll be caught and upset you can’t kiss her again— _ mostly _ upset because you can feel her hands on the back of your neck, burning you, her lips on fire against yours;  _ more intense, more powerful, than any feeling you’ve ever had. _

 

“Thought you could use some help.” He smiles at you like you’re everything and sometimes you feel like you’re going to crack under the pressure of being  _ everything  _ (a daughter, a friend, a girlfriend, a slayer). But he smiles you like that and you twist your hands together and you remember images flicking past in your brain: of all the love and memories you’ve shared.

 

“Guess you’re good, B.” Faith says, her voice is distant, fading into the distant. 

 

“Faith,” Her name dies on your lips. Her figure disappearing into the shadows. Angel’s hand on your wrist doesn’t feel the same, pales in comparison.  _ Her touch is hot to the bone, scorching you, lighting you on fire, electrifying.  _

 

_ four _

 

 

Faith is this — a slayer, your friend (you guess), someone who  _ understands.  _

 

Her hands are on your waist, her eyes hold something you can’t describe, something that motivates you to play a little more dangerous than you have since you stepped foot in Sunnydale.  _ Since you were Called.  _ Before you were always good, as Faith affectionately says, in between the hours of four and seven. Before the world has woken, when it’s just the two of you on a bed, in your room, her motel room, something flickering on the screen in front of you. But your attention is on each other, on every movement, of every glance. Both denying you’re paying attention to the other. But—you’ve always followed rules  _ to a degree _ , but before you had the world’s safety on your shoulders, the lines were a little smudged. You were a never poster child of dangerous and most of the rules you broke were the ones you break now, but back then it wasn’t because you had a sacred duty. 

 

_ Her hands are on your waist.  _ Her palm is in the space between your pants and your top, shifting your top up higher to feel your skin. It feels like being burnt alive, if being burnt alive  _ felt good. _ Okay, maybe not the best metaphor, you think as you move in time to the beat. It’s hard to think when her hands are on you and all you feel is her touch and all you can think about is Faith.

 

And all you can think is what it would feel like if you stepped _even_ closer, until your bodies were pressed together, your lips together. But she snaps you back into real time with her laugh, her hand slipping from yours to touch _some_ _boy’s_ face and you feel jealousy swell up inside of you. It doesn’t last long, her hand slips back into yours, twirling you around, arms swooping in the air as she shimmies down to the floor and back up again. Faith steps in closer towards you, until her perfume (something she picked up from the $2 dollar store on a early morning raid) is all that fills your senses, it’s intoxicating. Faith is intoxicating. Like whiskey in the morning on a Saturday. Like shots on a Friday night. 

 

“Having fun, B?” Her breath is hot on your ear, her lips hovering  _ so close _ . Her hair shields your face, her legs bouncing, her arms moving, her body against yours. Her laugh is a trill sound and you feel so closed in, but it doesn’t feel bad. Your finger trails up her wrist, up her arm and you match the wicked smile she gives you.

 

“Are you?” You taunt, spinning around and putting space between the two of you before spinning back in, laughing. It feels good to let loose, to put away all the frustrations and worries that follow you like a dark cloud. Faith grins and you flip your hair around and jump in time to the music. Everyone’s eyes are on the two of you but all you can see is Faith.

 

Faith is this — intoxicating, a little more than dangerous, enticing.

 

Her skin feels hot against your own and your hands push at her shoulders, testing to see who’s taller. Testing to see how many times the two of you can touch and brush it off as nothing. See how many limits you can break and bend. It’s like your hands have a mind of their own when you’re with her, unable to not help but wander, touching every bare slip of skin in sight. 

 

“I know somewhere we can go.” She whispers, voice low and rough. It sounds like she’s swallowed too much scotch, too much vodka, drunk until she’s entered a state of loose tongues and you wonder if she’d combat that with a sexual joke; you wonder when you started wondering what she’d say to your comments, when you began guessing when she’d started taking things in a sexual tone.

 

“Okay,” You whisper back.

 

_ five _

 

 

Her clothes are on the floor of her motel room and your breathing is uneven and she has an arm thrown lazily across your body and—

 

_ There’s a million things wrong with this picture (your boyfriend, the fact that Faith is  _ **_evil_ ** _ ) but none of that seems to matter to you. _

 

She smiles against your skin, her lips against your throat and she tells you this has been building up for months and  _ did it live up to the hype?  _ And you tangle your fingers in her hair, silky and smooth and soft, and kiss her hard enough that she’s all you feel, all you can think about, that everything that’s consuming you at the moment is nothing in comparison to how Faith consumes you. 

 

And how she consumes you. Like a fire. Like a blizzard. Like a hurricane. Like she’s all you can see for miles stretched ahead. Your focus is sharp on her and fuzzy on everything around her. 

 

“Better.” You whisper against her lips. 

 

Tomorrow she’ll go to the Mayor and will do his dirty work and the same hands that are touching you, the ones that are making you feel alive, will be drenched in blood. But you’ve always loved for your partners to have more blood on their hands than in their skin and Faith is—she’s  _ words don’t describe.  _

 

“I know.” Faith whispers back. 

  
_ And you can’t keep your hands to yourself. _


End file.
